Casca 11: The Legionnaire Page 3

  For Langer it was very familiar. He knew the routine and kept to himself, ignoring the barking of the NCOs. Quickly, efficiently, he set up his bunk area, folded his clothes according to regulations, dressed in the leftover mixture of uniforms from the Vichy stocks and was ready for the inevitable call to ranks. It came before most of the men even had their boots tied.

  The next weeks were spent in hectic, continuous spasms of training. Even though most of the men there had been soldiering for years, the Legion treated them as if they knew nothing and everything had to be learned all over again.

  1946 was welcomed in by a forced march of fifty kilometers with full field kit. Langer began to develop a personal distaste where Sergent chef Hermann was concerned. The man stayed on his ass constantly and had tried everything to get. Langer to make a mistake, and had failed. Langer thought he knew why. Once again, a woman had caused him problems with his superiors. How was he to know that Hermann had been paying her rent? Besides that, as the old saying goes, there is only one thing that can't be worn out and women have it. He didn't want to keep her only to borrow her for a while.

  Whatever gripes Langer had against the sergent chef, he did know his business and the regiment was shaped up in short order. The few squabbles among different races had been laid to rest as the men united in their one single point of agreement: who was going to put a bullet into Sergent chef Hermann and when?

  They were sent out for a few patrols against bandit groups who raided convoys from time to time, but there was no serious action. It was while in a jeep coming back from the bazaar at Sidi bel Abbes that he saw a familiar face in the passenger seat of an American truck going in the opposite direction. He didn't really believe it at first. They had passed each other too fast, but there was no way that there could have been two men in the world with the same features. It had been Gustaf Beidemann, the last survivor of his tank crew in Russia. Langer was sure it was him, because not only were the features the same but the face was contorted in one of its most common positions, namely that of stuffing an incredible length of sausage down a gaping maw.

  The two and a half ton truck bore the insignia of the 13th DBE and as soon as they had returned to Sidi Slimane, he began to make inquiries as to what unit had moved up that day. He tried to find out through their personnel office and had to resort to a bribe of three bottles of good brandy to get any results. A phone call to the 13th by his personnel sergeant and he had the answer. There was most certainly a Gustaf Beidemann assigned to them. Langer wasn't surprised that Gus had used his real name. The human tank was not one for doing anything as obvious as changing it, but then Gus wasn't wanted for anything by anyone except the military police of the now defunct German Wehrmacht, and no one cared what they wanted anymore.

  It took another two months before he was able to get a two day pass and permission to leave the vicinity of Sidi Slimane. He hitched a ride with a truck carrying supplies to town and half-dozed in the rocking vehicle. When someone else did the driving it always made him sleepy. It was easy to ride along over the dusty roads, his eyes closed, remembering what now seemed an eternity ago. He was on the dusty roads of Russia as they crossed the frontier in "Operation Barbarossa," the invasion of the Soviet Union. He listened to the screeching clatter of the tracks of his MK-IV as they drove over panicked Russians. Bypassing thousands of soldiers, they left them to be rounded up later by the infantry as they pushed deep behind the Russian front, severing the Soviet lines of communication and capturing huge depots of supplies and arms.

  The road to Moscow had been opened. Then setbacks began when Stalin released the Siberian Divisions. They were kept in Manchuria to protect their eastern borders in case of invasions by the Japanese. When the Japanese turned their armies toward Southeast Asia, Stalin was able to bring in the fresh, fully equipped Siberians for the defense of Moscow. They had made the difference against the tired Germans, who'd found themselves fighting in the midst of an early winter, still wearing summer gear. They had been pushed back out of Moscow. That was their first defeat, but others had followed.

  His had been a good crew. Teacher, Manny, Stefan, Yuri the Tatar and of course Gus, the human septic tank who swore that the only logical reason for invading Russia was for the vodka, as there certainly wasn't anything else there worth having unless it was one of the big-titted female commissars. Now they were all gone. Only he and Gus had survived. All the rest lay in forgotten holes somewhere in the wastelands of Russia, and young Manny didn't even have that. His body had been blown into frozen splinters at the battle of the Dnieper and Plavna marshes.

  The last time he'd seen Gus was from the window of a staff car when the security men for the SS were taking him in for treason. Heading back from the front, Gus had been walking along the road with a pig on a leash. He marched along casually as if he didn't have a care in the world and the noise about him would end soon, leaving him in peace to consume his pig at his leisure.

  After being left off at Sidi bel Abbes Langer made a disappointing trip to the 13th DBE 's personnel office where he was informed that private Gustaf Beidemann was no longer in residence, and should, by this time next week, be getting a gut full of rice and nouc nam sauce. Gus was en route to Indochina.

  He knew that it would not be too long before he joined his old friend. Fate had a way of pulling people together. Fate and war. Gus was in the Orient now, but Langer knew that he and many others would soon be going over to what was rapidly becoming known as the "meat grinder" – Indochina. The Legion had been sending reinforcements and new units there with constantly increasing frequency to fight against the guerrilla forces of a tiny gray bearded man, only now becoming known to the world Ho Chi Minh. Since the end of World War Two, so called "Armies of Liberation" had been cropping up daily in the former colonies of England and France, most of them supported by the Soviets or Red Chinese. It was with an old soldier's sense of the future that he knew that he would soon be at war once more. This time there would be no winters of frozen ground and bodies.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Heavy and oppressive, the heat of the midday lowered itself down through the thick covering of leaves and vines to settle on the camouflaged bodies lying in wait. The only sounds came from the twenty five men of the 13th DBE, strung along the path leading from the Tonkin mountains to the rice lands of the Red River delta.

  It had taken weeks of scurrying through the brush like field rats to locate it, but patience is its own reward, and they were soon to be paid for their perseverance. Today, tomorrow and their quarry would be coming along that trail. Huang Nguyen Thich, one of the big chiefs of the Viet Minh Intelligence Network, was going to see a girl named Lin. Not just any girl, but one who had made a habit of sleeping with high ranking French officers (no one of less rank than full colonel). Through her, he had gained access to plans that had given his force of guerrillas the advantage time and again over the hated French. He had to see her in person this time. She had forwarded to him the story that she had things of vital importance to General Giap, which could only be related to him personally; she no longer trusted her contacts.

  Langer didn't like thinking what the French security men might have done to the girl to get her to betray Thich. They knew how to play just as rough as the Asians did. Whatever they had done, or had promised to do to her, had been enough to get her to give up a list of her contacts and arrange the supposed meeting with the one man who would trust her implicitly, her older brother..

  Langer shivered with the damp heat as prickles raced along his body like a column of ants on their way to a party. A rumble down the side of the trail nearly brought him to his knees until he recognized the cause of the disturbance. Gus had performed one of his famous simultaneous stomach growls and farts. Langer was more concerned about the Viet Minh smelling Gus's aromatic discharge than he was of them hearing it. Of course they would probably think that it was no more than a dead elephant which had been lying around the jungle for a week or two.

  I
t had taken him three years to finally catch up with Gus. This was his second tour in Indochina and the third for Gus. In the past, they had passed each other coming and going. It was Gus who had finally brought them together after he'd found out that his former tank commander in the Panzer army of the eastern front was still alive and had been looking for him. Instead of rotating when his time was up, he was waiting at the piers at Haiphong, forty kilometers outside of Hanoi, when the transport carrying Langer pulled up to the docks.

  Langer was by this time a caporal chef, still under the jaundiced eye of Sergent chef Hermann. But he was too good at his job to be sent to another unit. Besides that, Hermann liked to settle with those for whom he had a hard on personally.

  When they had begun to file off the boat, Langer was up front leading his section. Suddenly his feet left the ground as a mouth accented by one shining gold tooth slobbered over him. Arms the size of telephone poles gave him what was considered to be a tender hug and nearly caved in his ribs.

  This demonstration upset Hermann, who began to curse and bellow at Langer and Gus for breaking the routine of the disembarkment. Setting Langer down gently, Gus moved to face Hermann. Screwing up his face under his regulation kepi, he squinted at the sergent chef and spat in front of his feet, his hand touching the trench knife at his belt.

  "Sergent chef," he began, speaking slowly in German, his heavy gut pressing its webbed belt against the lesser form of Hermann. "I don't really believe that you would wish to be so insensitive as to interrupt a reunion which I have looked forward to for many years. There are few things in this world that I hate so much as a rude and ugly person. Now I know that you can't do anything about your unfortunate appearance, at least not without the help of a good plastic surgeon or possibly a flame thrower, but your manners are something that could be corrected quickly without you ever setting foot off this ramp. "

  He farted to accent his words before continuing. "The only thing which I might hate more than such ugliness is one who would offend or even indelicately disturb the rightful and tranquil existence of one of my friends." At that moment, two men staggering under the weight of the butt plate for a heavy mortar passed them by. As they did, one lost his footing on the ramp and fell to his knees. The plate, which weighed as much as a full grown man, thumped to the ramp. Gus leaned slightly over and grabbed the metal plate with one hand and easily raised it up to chest level, holding it as a child would a toy. Gus held it like that until the two men regained their grip on the plate and staggered off down the ramp. He knew exactly what he was doing. Without waiting for any response from Hermann, he turned away, saying gently, "Now that we understand each other, I'm sure you'll have no objections if I take my friend and get him laid. I'll bring him back tomorrow. I know where you're going to be billeted. "

  As they moved off, Langer being gently yet firmly tugged at by Gus, the human tank waved a couple of pieces of paper over his head and shouted back, "Don't bother to send the `headhunters' after us," using the old expression reserved for the security police of the SS. "I have acquired passes for us both, good until roll call."

  Whether they were real passes or not, Langer couldn't tell and Gus never showed them to him, but he would never doubt that they were. Gus had an insane way of getting what he wanted.

  Hermann was pale with rage, but then, no one likes to fight a madman, especially not one like that. He promised himself to put another name on his rapidly growing list of those he had scores to settle with.

  Langer's reverie was broken by a triple click on his walkie-talkie, the signal that further down the trail one of his outposts had spotted armed men coming toward them. Twice before, in the three days they had been there, the radio had broken in with double clicks meaning no enemy soldiers. Peasants were using the trail to take their families to town or to carry a few packs of goods for trade.

  If their information was right, then this would be a chance to take out one of the best military minds the Viets had on their side. He rose up enough for his head to see over the bushes to his right and waved to Captain Claude Perault, the commander of this little group of assassins. Perault was a slightly built, large nosed professional, a graduate of St. Cyr, the French West Point. His thin frame hid an amazing amount of strength. Not the muscled kind, but the kind that meant endurance under the worst conditions, even if it meant days out in the enemy zone.

  The outpost was set two kilometers down the trail to give them more than enough time to prepare for their guest's arrival. All weapons were checked and cocked, ready for the action they had been created for. The ambush was classic in design. Set up in the form of an L. The short arm facing down the path had automatic weapons set between firing stakes to limit their traverse so they wouldn't hit their own men. On the long arm, all of the Legionnaires were on the same side of the path. The other side of the path had been mined and booby trapped. If the ambushed Viets tried to take over there, they'd be in worse shit than if they stood and fought. The men on the listening post would move in behind the Viets to cut off any retreat back down the path. They still had a few minutes for each of the Legionnaires to do the things they always did just before a fight. Most wanted a smoke, but it wasn't allowed since they had set up their killing zone. And it wouldn't be permitted until they either finished off the Viet Minh or were forced to bug out. Several had a sudden need to take a leak as word of the approach of the enemy went from man to man.

  Captain Perault slid closer to Langer, dark eyes straining to see through the trees and brush down the trail. Another set of clicks on the radio came in after a quick set of two and two. After that, each click meant ten men in the approaching party. Eight times the radio gave its count. Eighty men, give or take a few, were on their way. The Viets were very close. A movement where the path bent to the west drew all eyes. A figure detached itself from the wall of the forest, then was joined by two others. Perault nudged Langer as he whispered: "Les eclaireurs de Viet." Langer nodded, thinking that it was pretty obvious the approaching men were enemy scouts, but if the captain wanted to reinforce his opinion, then why not?

  Langer hissed to Gus, who grinned, his gold tooth sparkling even through the cover of the trees. Langer pointed down the trail and held up his hand, signaling for Gus to hold his fire until he gave the word. Gus nodded. He was at the corner of the long arm and the short of the L, a 57mm recoilless rifle loaded with canister shot ready to be fired. He carried the awkward piece of death with the ease that most soldiers would have carried a carbine.

  The Viet scouts came on at a regular pace, not careless but not overly alert either. This was, and had been, a safe route for years. There was no reason to expect anything out of the ordinary. The fact that they performed their duties with any attention at all proved they were regulars and not just the half trained villagers who fleshed out the Viet Minh ranks on a part time basis.

  The scouts passed, watched by the eyes of the Legionnaires, who followed their movements through the sights of their weapons. Every man in the unit but two was equipped with an automatic weapon, most with the 9mm French Mats 49 submachine gun, some with .45 caliber American M-3s or the famous Thompson, which was not highly favored because of its tendency to jam under rough conditions. Spread out along the ambush site were four FM 24/29 light machine guns, which resembled the English or Czech Bren to a large degree and which most of the gunners would have been glad to trade for a Bren, if they'd been able to.

  The Viet scouts were armed with captured French arms, a Mats 49 rechambered for the Russian 7.63 and a Mas 36 bolt action rifle. Small, wiry men, they looked well fed and fitted out in khaki battle dress under floppy forage hats. The ambushers held their fire, letting the scouts pass. They would be taken out later by a man placed farther down the trail for just such a purpose. Two hundred meters behind the scouts came the main force of the escort party for Huang Nguyen Thich. They were much the same as the scouts. No amateurs for the intelligence officer's party. Weapons were held relaxed but at the ready. Perault broke o
ut in a spontaneous acrid sweat. Langer knew the sour odor was the sweat of fear. But there would be no trouble with the captain; he had been with him before. Once the shit started, the sweat ended. The captain was just the anxious type who didn't like waiting.

  There were several men around the age of their target, but only one who wore the unconscious mantle of authority, as if he had been born into royalty. That was their man! Thich was in the center of the column, his uniform better made, steel rimmed glasses set over a strong, well fleshed face. German made Zeiss binoculars hung by a leather strap on his chest. His hands held an American M-3 submachine gun with practiced ease, the bolt cover open, though the weapon wasn't cocked. Careful, but not careful enough. Finally they reached the killing zone. Perault signaled to Gus, who set a 57mm recoilless rifle on his shoulder, the barrel pointing straight down the trail, his loader standing by ready to slap in another round as soon as the first one left the tube. Without being told, everyone knew the moment when the fight would start. Each readied himself, fingers slowly taking up the slack on triggers, grenades being placed in handier spots.

  The 57mm rifle vomited the canister round out of its tube. Hundreds of small bearings erupted down the jungle path, an onslaught of steel balls that tore bodies apart. Before the first men in the Viet column knew they were dead, another round had been loaded and fired. The roar of the rifle nearly drowned out the accompanying chatter of automatic weapons as they raked over the column. In the first six seconds, nearly sixty of the escort went down either wounded or killed. The remaining Viets responded with textbook precision. Instead of taking cover on the free side of the trail, they turned and charged straight into the jungle wall at their ambushers. Thich led the way, his M-3 taking out two Poles who'd joined the Legion together in '46. The surviving Viets knew they didn't have the strength to roll up the flanks of the ambushers and made straight for the jungle and cover. As they ran, four dropped behind to provide a delaying action for the pursuit they knew would soon follow.